


Patience

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-21
Updated: 2008-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry had been congratulating himself on escaping direct participation in yet another Ministry fundraiser... but has his smugness set in too soon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/11175.html). (21 June 2008)

Harry Potter was not known for being a patient man. If someone had asked his friends if patience was among his virtues, they would have doubled over in hysterics, and normally, Harry probably would have joined them.

Normally, however, Harry Potter was not desperately trying to stop himself from crawling over the Minister for Magic to get to Draco Malfoy. And normally, this impulse would have stemmed from a deep suspicion that Malfoy was Up To No Good, not from an urgent desire to snog Malfoy senseless.

Normality, Harry reflected as he gripped the seat of his chair to keep from vaulting over Kingsley Shacklebolt’s polished head and congratulated himself on this impressive show of self-restraint and patience, had never really enjoyed a strong presence in his life.

Ron sat to his right, calmly oblivious to Harry’s struggle, which was perfectly fine with Harry. He’d needed a few months and a healthy supply of Old Ogden’s Finest before he got up the stones to tell his best friend that no, he wasn’t dating Ginny, and no, it had nothing to do with her, it was just that girls and flowery perfume and soft curves just weren’t as interesting to him as sharp angles and muscled shoulders. He didn’t even want to _imagine_ the conversation in which he related to Ron his exact thoughts about Draco Malfoy.

Hermione, seated on Ron’s other side, was giving him forbidding looks. Harry wasn’t all that worried, though, since as long as she was content to silently threaten him with bodily harm she wasn’t putting two and two together and coming up with Harry having a completely irrational _thing_ with Draco.

Doing his best to ignore her, Harry returned his full attention to the stage, where Draco Malfoy strutted across the stage. The strut was not unusual; neither was the fact that Malfoy was wearing perfectly fitted robes.

It _was_ slightly out of the ordinary, however, that the robes (which clung to Draco’s chest in a way that made Harry think all sorts of interesting things) were a vivid, unmistakable shade of pink. When Draco had sashayed out, Ron had snorted with laughter and made some sort of snide comment which had been lost as Harry’s brain shut down in a sizzle of overheating neurons, leaving his muscles free to throw him forward toward the stage.

If he was honest with himself, the situation was completely his own fault. He’d been approached about being part of the Ministry’s new ‘Fashion and Philanthropy’ fundraiser, and had refused pointblank. He would be happy to attend and donate, he’d told a crestfallen Junior Undersecretary MacMillan, but he would _not_ parade about in front of half the Wizarding population of England, even if it was raising money for war orphans. Of course, he’d then turned around and shamelessly coaxed Draco into “helping a noble cause,” as he’d put it so loftily.

Now he was getting his just desserts, he thought ruefully as Draco threw a sly wink to the audience and sauntered casually off the stage, sending another funny little jolt to Harry’s stomach. He’d be dead if he told anyone – Ron would probably kill him with the death throws from a fatal aneurysm, and Draco would murder him out of sheer horror – but honestly, Draco looked rather... _dashing_ in pink.

It was absolute torture sitting through the rest of the show. All Harry wanted to do was find Draco and do unspeakable things to him and his pink robes, but an interminable parade of finely dressed witches and wizards kept him in his seat as he tried to give off the appearance of calm nonchalance. From the increasingly threatening looks Hermione was shooting him, though, he was fairly sure he was failing rather spectacularly at it.

Finally, _finally_ , the show was over, and while the coordinators were making their closing speeches and heaping thanks upon the Ministry and the attendees, Harry slipped away, ignoring Hermione’s scandalized whispers, ducking down and sliding stealthily along his row until he reached the door and practically scuttled through it.

Closing the door firmly behind him, he leaned against it with a sigh, shutting his eyes as he tried to banish the vision of Draco in vividly pink robes, winking.

“Fancy meeting you here, Potter,” an all-too-familiar voice drawled, and Harry started, knocking his head against the wall.

“Ow,” he said feelingly, rubbing the back of his skull as he turned to look at Draco, who was lounging comfortably a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. The robes, Harry immediately noticed, were even more stunning up close. He promptly forgot the ache in his skull, forgot that they were in a public corridor, forgot everything, in fact, except that he needed to touch Draco _right now_ or suffer horrible consequences.

“Harry?” Draco asked, looking slightly worried as Harry stalked down the hallway toward him. “Are you alright?”

“No,” growled Harry, finally near enough to get his hands on Draco’s chest, curling his fingers into the soft fabric of his robes and tugging him closer. “You’ve been driving me absolutely mad. This outfit,” he tugged on it again to make his point, drawing Draco even nearer, near enough to feel the heat from his body, “is driving me mad.”

Draco ran his hands over Harry’s shoulders, draping himself, filling Harry’s senses with nothing but the sight and smell and feel of _Draco_. “Is it, now,” he murmured silkily, trailing his fingers up Harry’s neck and tangling them in his hair. Harry shivered. “I’d prefer you not go any madder than you already are,” Draco continued. “Whatever shall we do about it?”

“I can think of a few things,” Harry said, his voice husky. “Starting with removing these robes piece by piece.”

He was leaning in for a kiss when there was an unearthly shriek from behind him. Whipping around, he automatically reaching for his wand, dropping into an attack position before he registered that the corridor was empty, save for Ron and Hermione standing just outside the door. Hermione looked thoughtful; Ron was dead white. His mouth was hanging open, and he looked about to fall over in a dead faint. The four of them stood, frozen, for a few moments that stretched on for eternities.

“Harry?” Ron croaked at last, still pale and looking utterly bewildered. “You... Malfoy?”

Torn between losing himself in the madness of Draco and pink robes or courting death by discussing his love life with his oldest friends, Harry turned his head slightly so he could see Draco.

“Your posse is delaying my plans for you,” Draco whispered to him, his lips nearly touching Harry’s ear. “I will be _most_ aggrieved if you make me wait, Potter.”

That decided it. “Later,” Harry told his friends, concentrating not on their betrayed expressions but on the warmth of Draco’s hands as they ran down his back. “We’ll talk all about it later.”

He turned back to Draco, taking hold of him again, and, before either Ron or Hermione could say anything, Apparated home.

After all, he’d never been a patient man.


End file.
